The Pond

The old farm sat up off of the road near the crest of the hill.  Cedars, wild plums, ash and hackberry had overtaken the yard surrounding the old homestead.  Poison ivy vines grabbed and wound their way up the larger trees, and fallen branches choked with dead grass and thistle collected below.  An old truck sat deteriorating to the side.  The house itself sat abandoned back in this forest.  Due to its isolation and the respect shown in this part of the state, it still retained most of its glass.  The paint had dried up and blown away decades ago.  A wind break of large cedars ran out the back of the place over the top of the hill and down along a fence separating the north and south crop fields.

The two brothers picked their way through the homestead lot hoping to push a rooster or quail out the back down the windbreak along the fence row.  They picked their way carefully and stopped to listen often.  The older boy carried a shotgun awkwardly, carefully pointing it away from his brother.  They worked their way out the tangles in the back to the fence line.

This area was hilly and in wetter years the mud prohibited cultivation in the ditches of the small valleys and depressions formed by the hills; this provided islands of cover to small animals and birds.  This year had been dry.  The meticulous care shown the fields contrasted with the chaos and neglect inside the homestead plot.  The lease farmer had expertly disked and harrowed down into every ditch and finger until nearly every inch of both fields had been planted.  No cover remained on the fence lines.

Crossing the fence out the back of the homestead plot into the corn stubble field, they split up and followed either side of the cedars on the fence row.  The cedars continued up to the crest and then down the hill towards the center of this section where dense reeds surrounded a pond.  The boys stayed in the corn stubble on either side of the cedars, winding through and over the stalks working over the crest and down the hill to the pond. They watched for a rabbit to break.  Their breath was clearly visible in the air.  It had been cold for over a month, and while it hadn’t yet snowed, puddles and small ponds had frozen over.  This day was humid and warming, a slight wind from the south and low dark clouds told of a coming snow.  The older brother shifted the shotgun from hand to hand to keep his hands warm; the younger occasionally stopped to pick up and chuck a dirt clod up into the cedars on the fence.

The cedars ended down by the reeds on the pond.  A small copse of leafless wild plums surrounded a large cottonwood in the swamp just beyond.  As the boys neared the swamp, they exchanged glances and gestured to plan their approach.  This little clump of trees and brush had harbored generations of pheasants long before they began hunting.  Slowing, they picked and crouched along taking pains to move without noise.  The older boy held his shotgun ready, anticipated a flush.  He knew the sting of being jarred from a daydream by a flushing rooster.

The wind hid their approach perfectly.  Nearly upon the reeds, they crept closer and stopped, waiting and watching.  Glancing at each other, they waited and listened, mouths open.  With a final look, the older boy nodded to his brother and they stepped into the brush.

The brush before them exploded with deer, white tails and long whistling snorts.  The deer leaped and bounded escaping towards the pond flagging.  The boys watched the deer retreat, hearts pounding.  The deer entered the thick reeds and crashed through, dodging and careening into each other.  The urgent clamor receded as the deer made their way up the side of the swamp along the pond still snorting.

They followed the deer’s progress up the swamp.  The surge of adrenaline now abating, the boys looked at each other.  The younger bent over, as if exhausted, and followed the noise resting his hands on his knees.  They had never been this close to a deer before, let alone this many.  They clearly hadn’t anticipated such a successful stalk.

Breaking ice and a splash brought their attention back to the present.  They could hear an animal struggling in the water.  The hollow, low splashing clearly communicated distress.  The brothers glanced at each other, and began walking up the edge of the reeds towards the noise.

As they skirted the swamp it was clear the animal was struggling.  The initial splashing had stopped, and every few moments would begin again.  Periodically it stopped, and they halted to catch the thread again.  It had been relatively distant at first.  As they jogged up the edge of the reeds they wondered if it had really happened.  The pond was obscured by the reeds down on the end where they had spooked the deer.  Then the splashing would begin again and they jogged closer towards the struggle.

The reeds began to thin out and they glimpsed a dark shape out on the ice, it bobbed and ducked.  It was a deer.  They walked now to a spot closest to the deer on the edge of the pond.  The older boy paused, then started into the reeds towards the deer.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m just going to see.’

The younger brother stayed back and watched as the boy held his shotgun up and stepped into the reeds on the frozen pond.  He made it to the edge of the reeds, looked down to estimate the strength of the ice. It was cloudy and he decided to go no further.

The deer must have broken from the reeds and tried its escape over the pond.  Several stumps stood up in the ice, remnants of the trees that had grown here prior to the placement of the earthen dam.  The ice was  rotten in places, this young deer had found one and fallen through.  The deer was treading water.  It held its mouth open panting.  After a pause it surged flailing the water trying to gain the lip of the ice.  It appeared it would make it, but the ice gave way in a sheet and the deer sank quickly back into the water.

The boy knelt by the edge of the reeds and watched the struggle.  Only thirty yards separated them.  He could clearly hear the labored breathing as the deer paced itself for its next attack on the lip of the ice.  Each heavy breath the deer made was carried away by the breeze until it dissipated down wind.  The boy could see the purpose in the deer, not panicked now.  Its concentration focused on the task of climbing out of the ice, the boy could clearly see his presence was of no consequence to the deer.

The deer made another attempt.  It surged, its chest and one foreleg cleared the lip, and it flailed only to catch under the lip with the other.  It slid back into the water this time going completely under.  When it resurfaced it blew and coughed.  Its demeanor changed, now clearly panicked.  It bobbed a couple of times, its head slipping further and further towards the surface of the water losing buoyancy.  It pirouetted in the hole in the ice, struggled with the sheets and chunks of ice, looked for a possible way out of the trap.

The boy watched.  He noticed his brother now at his side.

‘Is it going to make it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We should shoot it.’

The boy thought about that.  The deer was losing now.  It had been several minutes since its last attack on the ice.  He was torn.  This wasn’t deer season, he didn’t have a tag.  He didn’t know what the law would say about him killing this deer.  No one would probably ever find out.  But, he only had bird shot.  Even he knew it wouldn’t be effective and would only further pain the deer.

‘I’ve only got sevens.  They would only wound it.’

‘But it’s suffering.’

‘I know it.’

They watched. Now the deer was barely keeping its head above the water.  At times its head would bob under, it would surface and blow and cough.  It rolled from side to side.  Its coordination had left it, its eyes dull.  It slipped down, head disappearing under the water.  The body floated, buoyed up and its head stayed below.  The boys stood for a better vantage, and the deer lifted it head and lurched once more, and sank.  The water spilled out from the hole and spread out over the ice.  The body of the deer was all that was visible now as the water in the hole quieted and became still.

The boy turned and left looking at the ground.  His brother followed.  They walked picking their way across the corn stubble, it dug into their shins as they teetered on the clods in the rows.  Large cotton ball snowflakes began to fall as they made the crest of the hill and bee lined to the road north of the farmstead.

The Pursuit of Excellence

When I was growing up, my family regarded both of my grandfathers as icons of excellence.  I remember poring over pictures of my mother’s father after he died.  His image was printed on racing programs, motorcycle advertising posters and Indianapolis 500 team photos.  Aside from the family lore, I learned of his excellence after he had died as I investigated that stack of stuff he kept.  It was there in one box in the attic.  Of all the things acquired in life, this was what one man chose to keep.

You see, he wasn’t an excellent friend.  His memorial service was one of the saddest I’ve ever attended, very few people were there.  It was after the service when an older gentleman, one of his contemporaries, came up to my mother to express his condolences and sympathy.  He pulled me aside afterward and told me my grandfather had gifts, he was one of the best.  He repeated it, ‘The Best.’  My mother told me later that while he hadn’t always been the best father or grandfather, there were some people who valued his abilities and had overlooked his faults.  I know he repeatedly broke my mother’s heart the last years of his life.  He had selfishly withdrawn from her life, and from ours.  This hurt her deeply.  More than anything, I know she would have wanted us to know the good parts of him as she had.  She couldn’t convince him.  I searched those photographs to try to know him.

I never did really know or could understand his life looking through his things in that box, but did learn the value of excellence.  Later I learned first hand how it is revered.  I pursued excellence in sport in high school and later in the Air Force.  I became an excellent runner, rifle shot and technician.  I volunteered to deploy overseas and for positions of increasing responsibility on our jet.  My single-minded pursuits paid off with trophies, awards and praise for my knowledge and ability.  Enough, apparently, to fill an entire house.

Along the way I chose to not pursue or sustain friendships.  Each time I made that choice on purpose.  At times it just wasn’t convenient.  Other times I held stubbornly to principle, or chose not to consider an alternate point of view.  In all, I would say I authored the doctrine of a friendless life.

My father was visiting a few years ago.  I had all my awards, plaques and trophies in a box in a closet.  He must have gone through them.  He told me I should put them up on the wall.  I did, but I don’t know why really.  It is impressive. It fills two walls in my office – which by the way is a bedroom.  I’ve got a guest bedroom, it sits vacant most of the time.  This house I live in is pretty big, and nice too.  Though it’s filled with all kinds of my stuff, it is essentially empty.  I know that.

People now ask me if I’m still shooting.  I tell them I may.  What they probably remember is the person that traveled to every rifle match within a day’s drive and shot in every meet he possibly could in pursuit of excellence.  I can say in that pursuit, I have succeeded just as I have in most others.  If I do pick up a rifle again I will have different goals.  Though late, I have learned the second lesson my grandfather’s life had to teach me.  It is more important to be an excellent friend.

Barging In

I’ve tried to slip into a deer’s sheltered bedding area unnoticed.  So far, I haven’t pulled it off.  What is surprising isn’t the extraordinary senses deer possess, but the naive belief such a plan could work.  Regardless of any pains you may go through to cover your approach or use the conditions to your advantage, you’re just barging in on them.  I’ve rousted deer out of all kinds of places.

The same held true every time I traveled overseas with a large group of Air Force flyers.   No matter how quietly and respectfully your outings commence, American boisterous exuberance prevails until you’ve emptied the pub.   You’re sure to draw pointed looks of disapproval.  It’s just our nature.

And I shouldn’t forget to mention all the barging I’ve done sanctioned by our government.  I was good at that.

What is it about entering someone’s personal space or imposing your will that is so intoxicating?  I’ve always been embarrassed by this trait and have become increasingly self-aware.  Over time I’ve attempted to scale back the full-on assault.  I still find it difficult to balance my natural inclination to incessantly pester anyone I find interesting with keeping a respectful distance.  New acquaintances and friends  are the hardest to read and I always end up awkwardly barging in on their life.  In a round-about way, this is an apology.

Nothing New Here

Every once in a while when conflict boils up at the office, our boss has us take the Keirsey temperment sorter.  This causes angst and many protest.  I’ve developed a shorthand with my boss: ‘Put me down for NT.’   ‘Gotcha.’

After we get our personalized results, there is commentary and more griping.  Then the meeting, including these topics:

- The key to communication is understanding each others communication style

- This communication style is tied to your temperment, followed by each of the communication preferences associated with your temperments

- Respect the fact that everyone doesn’t see things the way you do

- We all have our strengths and weaknesses

- Find a way to GET ALONG.

Excluding me, I don’t think she has convinced anyone.  There has to be a better way.

Recently I rediscovered some Steinbeck.  I remember reading it back when I was stationed in Monterey.  At that time it was just a diversion.  Now, we could probably use Steinbeck short stories and novels as the easiest way to illustrate someones temperment.  It might go like this:

‘What is his problem?  Is he for real?’

‘Pastures of Heaven, chapter nine, protagonist.’

‘Oh, yeah. Thanks.  I’m an idiot.’

Reentering the Real World

I retired from the military just over five years ago.  The culture I was part of was a microcosm of the military itself.   The military is screened for health and filtered by age.  You don’t serve with anyone with a real disability, however with the current wars that is changing.  No one is younger than seventeen, and very few in the rank and file top fifty.  And yes, it is predominantly male.  This means no elderly, no one in wheelchairs, and no children.

I spent the last ten years of my career deployed overseas at least a quarter of the time.  The filters in place further winnowed any diversity that  existed.  The third time I went to Saudi Arabia, I marked each day on my Camel Calendar I didn’t see a child.  Four days were blank.

My job was to find things or people and pass them off so they could be destroyed.  Later in my career I was chosen to lead the effort, to orchestrate the process.  I was really good at that.  I make no claim to authorship of any new or revolutionary technique, tactic or procedure, but I could execute expertly.  I could observe a situation unfolding, assess the outcome, direct changes and act to take advantage.  I was proficient.  Extremely.

I shouldn’t have been shocked at how horribly I was prepared to embark on a life outside of the military.  Through the years I had focused so much of my energy and attention to my craft, I let my mind wither.  Friendships I should have sustained and nurtured were also neglected.   I’ve got some catching up to do.

How a Towel Ruined Camp Justice

Morale and esprit de corps are fleeting states in a military unit.  Military units that genuinely exhibit these qualities are often subject to envious scorn.  I had the opportunity to deploy with a unit that embodied these values.  We arrived at Camp Justice with all the cohesiveness and vigor of a unit afflicted with high morale and esprit de corps.  For those already deployed at Camp Justice, it marked us and something had to be done to destroy this bond.

I must first begin with a description of Camp Justice and military temporary duty in general.  Camp Justice was on a true island paradise in the middle of an ocean.  Life there wasn’t without drawbacks.  Being on the end of a long supply chain, every consumable item made its way to Camp J. on a container ship.  Beer was sour.  Food was stale.  The selection was meager.  Living accommodations were spare, six people per tent on cots.  Latrines and showers were communal.  The weather there is always hot and humid.  It rains often.  Just being away from home, family and friends is stressful.  Yet, taking all of this into account, Camp J. abounded with opportunities not found back in the states.

I had been to this island previously with the same unit.  It was, without question, one of the most fun trips I had.  We were billeted ‘Downtown in the Q.’ We drank beer together outside under the stars until the sun rose.  Fishing charters were commissioned and we caught hundreds of pounds of fish that we grilled at picnic-barbeques between missions.  We toured the historic places on the island together.  We flew some long missions, accomplished what we had been tasked to get done, and had a lot of fun doing it.  In short, no one was left out, we made sure everyone had fun.  And though on this trip we were in a tent city, it was just as fun.

As soon as we descended upon Camp J. we began to incur the ire and envy of the permanent residents.  From their perspective, you’re deployed to a tent city on the other side of the world, you are isolated on an island in the middle of an ocean, the people you work with are all strangers from every conceivable location on the globe, it’s hot and you live in a tent.  You won’t get back home for another three months and the trip home can take up to a week.  Then, out of the blue a unit shows up with fifty extra people placing a tipping strain upon the already-maxed infrastructure.  And they are happy to be here.  Damn, they get out and start partying, sunbathing, swimming, fishing, sight seeing and flying together right off the bat.  And they all know each other, act like they are all related to one another.  Why this would anger anyone was beyond my comprehension, but it did.

Living in close quarters brings its own peculiarities.  The Command Chief Master Sergeant was diligent, took his duties seriously.  Every morning at 0930 he would tour the compound with his helper.  With a clipboard on his lap and pen handy, he directed his helper to drive down this road and that.  The late-80’s dodge pickup truck, Air Force Blue, idled between palm trees and tents.  We watched him conduct this curious inspection more than once, waving to him and saying, ‘Hi Chief.’  He would smile and wave back to us, and get back to annotating his observations on the clipboard.  The helper would stare and smile, then ease the AF blue Dodge pickup into gear and they would idle away down the road.  It was weird, but you know the guy has a job to do.  I’m glad we have guys like him around for the tasks of administering places like Camp J.  We weren’t yet aware of the implications of these inspections the Chief was conducting.

Our commander on this trip was a Lt. Col with about 19 years in.  He was one of the crew.  He didn’t have a problem dealing with situations that require a firm hand, but he was one of us too.  He would sit down and talk to you about duck or deer hunting, the time you deployed to such and such a place and someone did this or that.  He is a nice guy and someone we all respect.  And since we all liked and respected him and his position on this trip, the tacit agreement was we wouldn’t go out of our way to make his life miserable.   People made sure we showed up on-time for the mission, and took care of anyone who needed assistance.  We were self-policing.  So it went for the first week.

Military ritual and procedure is written about at length in a library we call Instructions.  They are published at all levels: Air Force, Command, Wing, Squadron, etc.  Included in this library is etiquette.  Unfortunately, this etiquette instruction doesn’t include simple everyday manners, which you would logically think might be addressed.  Instead, it deals with seating arrangements, who should enter a building first based upon date of rank and other useful day-to-day Air Force life situations.  Most people begin to learn social rules-of-the-road very early in life from their families and on the playground.  Lessons like discussing a problem with your sibling before going directly to Mom or Dad.

There are some unwritten rules of military etiquette.  Some of these might seem obvious and apparent to the average non-military person.  Yes, even in the military, escalating a problem to gigantic proportions from the outset is rude and disrespectful to those who ultimately must fix the problem in question.  In short, the Chief chose to give the results of his inspection directly to the Wing Commander instead of passing them to our deployed first sergeant or commander.  The infraction:  hanging a towel on a tent guy wire.

Keep in mind this is a tent city.  The latrines were slapped together, urinals early twentieth century vintage.  The only structures exhibiting any outward appearance of permanence swayed and groaned in strong winds.

Now, this issue is elevated all the way to the full bird Colonel.  The Expeditionary Wing Commander with a capital ‘C.’  For our Lt Col, this wasn’t something he’s going to ignore, it would follow him back to home station.  Regardless of your chosen career path or service goals, snubbing a colonel will leave a mark.  I can’t imagine the disbelief our commander must have felt when this issue was brought to him.  I mean, all the Chief had to do was point the infraction out to us as he drove by and ask us to take the towel down.  Instead, and I was standing right there, he waved, annotated and idled away.  And now our Lt Col had to respond.

I found out coming off of the jet after a mission.  We were a little tired and had some materials to put away and reports to issue.  Our normal routine was to get the stuff back into the building, account for it and ride down to the comm center to finish up.  Instead, we were met by our deployed first sergeant.  He told the aircraft commander to have the crew meet in the crew room for an important briefing.  The last time that had happened, someone had died.  No joke.  Now, we’re all wondering what’s going on.  I know I felt queasy looking forward to some bad news.  We were all looking at each other with that look – this isn’t going to be good.

We got up to the room, put our stuff up and sat down in the folding chairs.  The commander was there with the first sergeant.  We all got quiet and waited for the bad news.

Our Lt Col went first, ‘There’s been an incident in tent city.  We’re going to pass out the new AEF Instruction.’  Now our curiosity was piqued.  Maybe no more driving, someone got hit or ran over a tent.

Now the first sergeant, ‘Turn to the highlighted section on page 3, item 3.1.1: Tent guy wires will not be used to hang laundry.’

The Lt Col again, ’Please sign off the read file before you leave today.  Thanks’

Presented with such a situation, some people see opportunity once they know what irks the establishment.  Such a cohesive bunch with time on their hands, you get the idea.  The next morning, for the Chief’s inspection, nearly every tent in his section of tent city had a towel hanging from a guy rope.  His tent had at least one on every rope.  Miraculously, our section had none.

The escalation continued.  An addendum was issued to the instruction:  Weekly health and welfare inspections, to be conducted by the first sergeant.  Another meeting, sign off the read file, and scheming.  This Chief really knew how to turn up the heat.  His attention had cost us our Lt Col’s joviality; he no longer participated in banter.  He began to look preoccupied.  Our first sergeant, also a crew dog, speculated the Chief really did have it in for our Lt Col.  That had us worried.

Meanwhile, a change came about with the other residents of Camp Justice.  Their usual friendly nods became smug and knowing.  This made us suspicious.  Finding time on a computer in the internet café became difficult.  There was no give and take in the chow hall line.  An entire section of tents vacated overnight causing a separation between our group and the rest of the city.  This wasn’t abnormal, but the tents never filled in again.  We were literally isolated.

I’m not sure who decided it was a good idea, let alone who implemented it.  But, it happened and we all suffered the consequences.  Someone filled two garbage cans, one with water, the other sand.  In order to ensure an exit out the front of the tent, the sand-filled can was placed to block the back door.  The water was suspended above the tent entrance; clever and perfectly executed.  Under different circumstances, this might have been a triumph.  Unfortunately, the Chief was completely surprised on his way to a wing staff meeting with the full bird colonel.

I found out this time on the way back in the air.  They zapped a message up to us: ‘Meet in the crew room after you land.  Entire crew.’

We had an inkling, and maybe some of my crew were aware.  If they were, I didn’t want to know.  That was a long three hours back to base.  When we got back to the room, the commander wasn’t there.  The first sergeant stood in the front of the room.  He looked very tired.  He didn’t say a word.  We came in and sat down.

‘Does anyone have anything to say?’  We sat quietly.  After a long pause, our aircraft commander asked, ‘What’s up?’

‘Sir, someone booby-trapped the Chief’s tent.’

‘Okay.  And…?’

‘You all need to wait here.  Capt White and Sergeant Quick, come with me.’

I got up, handed my material to my AA, and followed Capt White and the shirt out of the room.  We went down the corridor of the building.  Looking out the window as we passed by the stairwell, you could see the palm trees on the far side of the runway.  Of all of the places I had been to in my career at that point, this was one of the best.  I was in paradise.  We turned right at the end of the hall and went into the wing command office.  The first sergeant stopped, turned to us and told us to wait there.  He went into the colonel’s office, turned around and looking at Capt White, ‘You may enter, Sir.’

He closed the door after them.  I heard some muffled discussion.  For the first time in my life, I wished I could be anywhere else but there.  I wanted to bolt.  I needed to sit down, but there was no place to sit.  A major with a B-52 squadron patch came in and saw me, and the closed door.  His eyebrows touched his hairline.  He turned and left.

Abruptly, the door opened and Capt. White came out.  He didn’t look at me, just walked out of the office.  He looked extremely pissed off.  I was still looking at that door when the shirt told me to enter.

There are certain times when it’s best to behave the way people expect you to.  Wearing the same flight suit I had put on 22 hours ago, I put on my military discipline face and marched into the wing commander’s office as if I owned it.  Stopping in front of her desk, I came to attention staring at an imaginary point six inches above her head.  I popped a salute as hard as I possibly could.

‘Ma’am, Sergeant Quick reports as ordered.’

She returned my salute.  Our Lt Col was standing to the side of her desk.  Not at attention, but with a look of concern on his face.  He was pale.

‘Sergeant, do you have any information regarding the Chief’s tent?’

‘Ma’am, I do not.’

‘Do you have any information about anyone that would like to harm the Chief?’

‘No, Ma’am.  I do not.’

‘First Sergeant, please take Sergeant Quick’s statement.  You are dismissed.’

I saluted.  She returned the salute, and I departed.

The first sergeant was directly behind me as I strode down the hall.  ‘What do you know?’  He didn’t respond.  ‘I guess the trip to the plantation is off tomorrow, huh?’

‘I don’t think you realize what kind of trouble you and your crew are in,’ he responded.

‘Do you really think I know anything?  Because, I’d like to know.  Like, what happened.  What did happen?’

‘I need your statement,’ he replied.

So, I was read my rights.  The statement I was about to make was of my free will.  The security policeman notarized it.  I didn’t include anything I hadn’t told the colonel previously.

When I caught back up with the crew, I learned of the incident with the Chief’s tent and the extent of the allegations.  We moped around.  We could have gone down to the club and had pizza and sour beer.  Instead, we hung out.  I read a book in the tent and went to send some email.  I might have paid my telephone bill.

I hadn’t shared anything with my crew, and this made them suspicious.  I wasn’t ready to be around anyone else.  The next morning, I got up and went to get some breakfast at the chow hall.  The BX guys were blowing bubbles.  There was a strong wind and the bubbles were being sucked in the vortex in the lee back up to the roof of the building.  They swirled around and around.  They were giggling.  John was in there eating bacon and eggs.  I sat down across from him.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, what’s up?’ I countered.  He chewed on a piece of bacon, swallowed, looked away and asked, ‘What did you tell them?’

‘I didn’t tell them anything.  You know, John, we don’t know anything.  I wish I did.  That would be a great secret.’

‘Yeah.  I don’t know either.’

The remaining days at Camp Justice were filled with compliance and banality.  No more crew trips.  I can’t blame anyone.  We were ready to go home.  I didn’t really find out what happened to the Chief until we were on our way home.  I found out in a gift shop in Japan.  I admire whoever set it up.  I wish I had thought of it.

The Chief, meanwhile, had accomplished his goal.  We all hated each other on that camp.  Stuck in paradise, we were as miserable as he.  Our motives were different than his, but we all learned to police our location with an eye to detail.  After all, we had each other’s back.

The Rut Line

He wound his way through saplings in the ravine bordering the old homestead road.  Picking his way carefully, he dipped the rifle slung on his shoulder so the barrel would clear the lower branches of the sapling oaks.  The trail was rutted from heavy use, and in the low light it was easy to follow. He traced it up to the bottom of a steep embankment and began the climb up to the ridge.

The going was slippery.  A recent rain had dampened the hard-packed soil, the clay now greasy.  He thought he should have worn lugged boots rather than the rubber.  At a particularly steep spot he grabbed at a root to help gain purchase and pull himself up.  Near the top he could smell the damp cedars that ran up the flat on the ridge.  The last part of the ascent abruptly angled off to a split in the cedars.  He paused.

Turning around, he looked back down onto the road.  His truck was almost visible.  He could barely make out shapes in the dark valley below.  Above him, only the brightest stars were now visible; the sky to the east was light.  Looking back down the embankment, he noticed a lighter shape on the trail.  In his binoculars he could almost make out the shape, but there was no color.  Putting his binoculars back down, he hitched his rifle sling and felt the opposite shoulder for his orange vest.  Not finding it, he got in the binoculars again and confirmed his vest was hanging on a sapling on the trail.  He considered retrieving it; the scent would probably spook any deer that followed.  In another moment, he decided it would be fine there.

He followed the trail up into the cedars along the ridge, meandering through a maze of jutting branches, the trail popped out up onto another small cleft in the ridge.  The limestone quarry had dragged a cut through the top of the ridge here decades before.  The trail dipped down into this cut and followed it further up the hill. Nothing but elderberry and stinging nettle had grown here for years.  The ebbing days and recent frosts had killed the understory until the leaves had turned or shriveled and dropped.  In spite of the clear skies, the morning was humid and damp.  He made his way noiselessly along the trail.

At the top of the cut, the trail dissipated.  It was becoming lighter very quickly now, and he had little difficulty finding his way up into an oak flat.  Here, the oak leaves covered the ground ankle deep.  A damp, earthy muskiness mixed with the sweet cedar.  The cedars eventually petered out and were replaced with large, mature oaks.  Looking up, the oaks branches spread out above, dark against the lightening sky.

He was close now.  Walking past the last cedar, he paused in a large clearing.  The largest oaks grew here in this broad, protected flat on top of the bluff.  He looked up into the trees to orient himself.  It had been months since he had been here, before the craziness had begun.  He searched each tree carefully.  He couldn’t immediately recognize any one tree.  When he had placed his stand the oaks all had leaves, the elderberry, nettle and sumac mature covering the deadfalls on the floor of the flat.  In the low, dawn light this was an unfamiliar place and he was disoriented.  He then spotted the small plum tree.  This tree grew incongruously at the base of a large white oak.  It grew up at a crazy angle away from the trunk of the huge tree.

Following the trunk up he spotted his stand up behind a branch.  He remembered now how he and Kevin had placed this stand.  The tree, the last near the top of the flat, angled down over a deer trail.  A line of cedars made a thicket behind to the west at the top of the flat.  Just on the other side, an old three-strand barbed wire fence ran the length of the top of the bluff.  Beyond the fence the bluff dropped nearly straight down into the bottoms, naturally funneling the deer down past this tree.  Every avenue of approach could be covered up in this oak.  It was a good stand.

At the bottom of the tree, he dropped his pack, set his rifle down and hooked them to the pull rope hanging down from the stand.  Opening his pack, he looked for his harness.  He was sure he had placed it there.  Searching through the contents, it became apparent it wasn’t.  It was on the bench in the basement.  He was going to pack it, but in his haste had forgotten.

He debated not climbing the tree.  It was a stable stand, was easy to climb into.  He closed the pack and went up.

On the stand platform, he carefully pulled his rifle and pack up.  He got the cartridges out and loaded his rifle, put the safety on and hung the rifle on a limb.  He sat down and began to think.  He wouldn’t let it happen here, he thought.  This was something I’ve looked forward to for the last two months.  There’s no reason why I can’t enjoy this, I’ll wait and get a nice deer and that will keep me busy.  I won’t have to admit it yet.

A barely perceptible sound below him brought him back.  The ringing in his ears was just beginning to dissipate.  A month and a half drone of air-conditioning units, blaring radios and shouting had taken its toll and he wasn’t sure the sound existed.  He strained to hear and eventually discerned the steps in the leaves.  Holding his breath, exhaling slowly through his mouth, he judged the cadence of the footsteps in the leaves.  A squirrel?  No, a deer.  Turning slowly, he peered down the flat towards the trail head.

A small doe broke through the cedars and walked steadily up into the flat.  She jogged at times, panting and clearly bothered.  The hair on her rump was rough.  Not pausing, she passed below the tree towards the fence line trail.  He looked at his watch, five minutes past shooting time.  Reaching into his pack he brought out his binoculars.  Looking down the flat towards the gap in the cedars where she had appeared, he searched for a trailing buck.

This kept him busy, he was almost excited.  He had thought about this stand, this day, at least once every day since they had placed the stand.  And now it was just something to do.  9/11 had changed all of that.  That afternoon she had asked if he was going.  She knew he would.  He always went, but this time was different; they were engaged.  She asked where, where are you going?  He couldn’t answer that, didn’t know himself.  Of all of the times he had left before, this was one time he didn’t know.  Usually he knew for how long.  All prior trips had become insignificant; this one had more uncertainty than any other.  The last few days had been uneasy.

The buck was just standing there where he wasn’t supposed to be, down on the south end of the oak flat.  His mouth hung open, his breath hanging in the air.  He tilted his head back, squinted his eyes and curled his lips to test the air.  In the binoculars, it was an older buck.  He appeared gaunt, gray, past his prime.  A large antler on his right was missing several tines, the other tips broken off.  The left had been snapped off and ended just inside his ear.  An open wound on his shoulder oozed and matted the hair.  The skin sagged on his neck.  He stood now and looked cautiously up into the flat only moving his head.

Watching the buck hesitate there, he scrutinized the deer.  His heart had been pounding from the sudden rush of discovering the buck, and this began to subside.  He knew he would let this buck walk.  The buck continued to peer up the trail where the doe had disappeared.  He thought this might have been the deer he and Kevin had spotted two seasons ago, then in his prime.  It happened quickly, they had spooked it trying a push up the far side of the farm.  The forked brow tine was distinctive. He and Kevin had tried for that deer together several more times.

A rubbing noise behind him, almost like sawing, ended the daydream.  Turning slowly in his stand, he looked carefully through the cedars.  The sound was clear now and abruptly stopped and was replaced with heavy, deep breaths.  Ten, twenty breaths.  Loud exhalations, not snorts.  It stopped.  He couldn’t see any sign of the deer behind him.  A minute passed and the sawing began again.  Searching in the direction of the rubbing, he brought up his binoculars, heart pounding.  He attempted to penetrate the cedars, but was unsuccessful.  The rubbing stopped.  Footsteps now heading south along the fence line behind him.  He maybe caught a glimpse of a reddish shadow moving behind the cedar curtain back towards the fence.  The barely perceptible footsteps faded.

Turning back to his front, the old buck had gone.  Looking down on the edge of the oak flat, he could see the bottom beyond with his binoculars.  A large gray deer was slinking away down the trail.  The old buck had decided to leave.

Settling slowly into the seat, he hung the binoculars on the branch and leaned back against the oak, almost comfortable.  The damp morning was almost chilly.  This time of year the weather was highly variable.  This morning was still and rendered distant sounds intimately close.  A heavily laden freight train blew, rumbled and clacked through the river valley.  He gazed down towards the river, but the cedars blocked the view of the bottoms.  A car down on the highway passed below.  Squirrels were up now and he could hear them jumping among the leaves looking for mast.

The trip over was significant only in that they had no idea where they were headed.  They eventually told them on the last leg.  They stayed in a warehouse for several days on cots, eating MREs.  Eventually they built tents, tents to sleep in, tents to eat in and those to shower.  Order had been restored, all tents carefully placed with surveyed precision.  And the morale tents were finally put up.  Internet access and phones.  Ten minute morale calls, log the number and time.  He thought it had been odd, calling his house.  At first he had called every day.  Things were fine.  Everything is taken care of.  I’ll rake the leaves when they fall, the lawn has quit growing.  He remembered looking forward to those calls, sometimes he had to leave a message.  This was new to him, what do you say?

Eventually the calls became more infrequent, he was flying so much.  The flights were a welcome outlet from the boredom in camp; every shade of brown imaginable, and some you couldn’t.  You see the same people every day, wake up and run, shower and eat with them.  Then fly with them, return to camp and start it all over again.  It was hard to explain.  But she didn’t ask.

He had spent a lot of time thinking about rifle deer season.  He remembered the guilt he felt that he should want to get back that early.  There was clearly a lot left to do there, the early days of the war had just been a glimpse into his future.  He already was on a crew to return soon.  They had flown often, long missions, they ran out of hours and couldn’t get a waiver to get back in the air.  Their crew had been sent home to recover their hours.  He thought that is probably just as well, getting back soon.

The doe came jogging through the clearing from the north, mouth open and tired, her back hair still all messed up.  She didn’t pause and retraced her previous track down into the cut below the oak flat.  He picked up his rifle and set it on his lap.  He didn’t know why.  He sat for several minutes before the sound of a deer walking down the trail could be heard.  The young buck paused at the top of the flat, looking.  A spike.  The spike peered back and forth for several moments, took a few steps and lowered its head to scent the ground.  Raising its head again, it looked around.  After a few more tentative steps, the spike went off down the track trailing the doe.

He didn’t feel any rush at all.  He tried not to indulge, but couldn’t help it.  He knew it was odd last night, something wasn’t right.  Their plane had landed on base, it was the colonel’s doing.  He had arranged for the squadron’s plane to pick them up on the east coast.  He assured them family would be there when they landed.  And they were.  The crew and everyone all piled off of the plane to greet them.  He stood back on the jet, stood in the open cargo door and watched them reunite, looking for her.  He had been reassured the squadron would call and make sure she got a ride out.  She wasn’t there.  Unloading the bags gave him something to do.

Stop it, he thought.  He hung his rifle back up on the branch.  The cars passed more frequently down on the road below.  He opened his pack and began to catalog its contents.  His compass, the tag, gloves, a knit cap, canteen; he pulled the canteen out and set it down on the platform below his knees.  It was about half empty.  Digging around, he found it.  It was a nice knife.  He had used it many times and had sharpened it every season carefully.  He pulled the knife from its sheaf and looked at the inscription:  To my best friend and hunting buddy – Kevin.

He put the knife away in the pack.  Looking in a side pocket he found a candy bar.  He wasn’t hungry.  He put it back into the pack and hung the pack on the branch.  He was thirsty and drank some of the stale water in the canteen.  It must be at least nine months old, he thought.  There hadn’t been time this morning.  At least I’m hunting.  Enjoy this.  You won’t get this chance for another year, and that may not happen.

The trip home from base was strange.  He had imagined for weeks how this might go, this wasn’t something he had done before, come home to his fiancée.  He felt eager and a strange uneasiness.  She’s probably waiting at home; didn’t want to be around the rest of the squadron.  Or, maybe she wasn’t told.  He wasn’t supposed to be home until tomorrow.  The last few calls to her had been shorter and spare.  I can’t wait to get out of here.  I can’t wait to get home to see you.  I miss you so much.

Kevin’s truck in the driveway.  No lights on.  It hadn’t clicked.  Maybe it was the long trip home, spread over four days.  Or the jet lag, his body was nine hours away in another time zone.  He should have known, but he didn’t.

Again he thought of how he had anticipated this hunt, had daydreamed about it in tents on the other side of the world.

The sawing brought his attention to the present.  It came from behind the cedars along the fence line.  Slowly, deliberately he turned in his seat and retrieved his binoculars again.  The sawing stopped.  Breathing.  Some steps, a scraping noise.  Some more steps.  He tried to zero in on the source of the noise, but the cedars screened any sight of the buck

This continued for almost half an hour.  The buck was tending a scrape line along the fence.  He had to strain to hear at times, but from time to time the imperceptible broke the threshold and became audible.  He had seen deer rub, scrape and fight.  These sounds weren’t unfamiliar to him.

He had been intently watching for this deer for nearly an hour.  It was well past mid-day, the shadows had leaned towards the east and lent new perspective to the oak flat and cedar thickets.  It was after a long pause the buck walked back from the north down the fence line, and he caught a glimpse.  A new reddish patch dissolved.  Seeing this, the buck’s footsteps became audible.  He followed its progress behind the cedar screen by the slight whisper of rustled leaves and muffled thumps.  An antler tine disappeared.   The buck now made it further south than he had all morning.  He slowly unslung the rifle from the branch and brought it up to his shoulder.  The buck appeared just past the last cedar and stopped.

It was a large-bodied deer, its neck bulging and coat glossy.  He held his head erect, his tall antlers glistened.  The buck was in his prime.  He owned the oak flat.

He regretted pulling the trigger as soon as the rifle recoiled.  The buck hunched and reared at the hit.  It sprinted forward disappearing into the dense undergrowth towards the cedars.  Silence followed momentarily, and his hearing coming back, jays screamed their displeasure and alarm.

It was a long drag back down to the old homestead road.  He finished in darkness.  It took him three attempts to get the lifeless body of the buck into the bed of his truck.  A mist had begun to fall soaking his cotton jersey.  He stood in the road and changed into dry clothes to check the deer in at the sheriff’s station.

The deputy clipped the tag around the base of the deer’s antler.  ‘That’s a nice deer.’

‘He is, isn’t he.’

Last Flush

The east began its dawn as the truck eased off the road into a rise in the ditch.  Dust drifted back across the road.  The door opened and a hunter stepped out, leaned to one side, and a dog jumped out of the cab to the ground.  Gaining his balance, the dog hopped around towards the back of the truck bed and disappeared.

The hunter stepped out, pulled a coat and a shotgun from the cab.  He shrugged on the coat and checked the pockets. Contemplating, he reached back in and brought out a whistle which he put in his pocket.  Closing the door to the cab, he checked his pockets one more time and stepped back around the truck bed and made his way to the fence.  The dog was waiting there, and he lifted the bottom strand of the fence for him. Stepping on the second strand, he balanced near the post, swung over and dropped into the field.  The dog came back and bounced against his hips.  This surprised him, and brought a smile to his face.

This part of the field had seen better days.  Patches of low brome grass vied with cockle burrs and a few thistles.  They headed north towards a crest in the hill.  The dog made wide arcs in front pushing into the light breeze, head held up, eyes squinted, this was relatively easy going.  They climbed the hill up across a broad crest.  The hunter tracked the dog’s progress by sound.  The morning was cooler than he had expected and his boot soles slid every now and then on patches of frost beneath the grass.  His fingers began to ache, and he moved the shotgun from hand to hand, wriggled his fingers and made a fist to relieve them.  His nose and face began to tingle.  The cloudless sky lightened now as the sun broke the horizon.

Working down the back side of the hill into the large pasture, the dog’s pace slowed.  His head dropped as he inspected scents near the ground and began to wander, preoccupied; the hunter altered course and trailed the dog.  Further below them the hill sloped into a small valley.  Here, the brome mixed with taller switch grass pushing out the weeds.  In earlier years it had provided cover for countless birds.  As the dog worked his way to the thicker grass, the hunter reminisced about a younger dog, a searing pace through tall, thick cover, a black-faced glance, and unexpected flushes.  They worked through the thick grass in the valley formed by the hills.  The dog skirted the edges of the cover, the hunter coaxing him into the more promising clumps.  The lack of bird tracks in the dried mud and frost did not encourage the hunter.  It was later in the season, and he supposed most of the birds were either in thicker cover elsewhere or had been pushed out of the field.  He intended for it to be an easy day for the dog, and for him to keep track of the dog.  He now rued not hunting the dog earlier in the season in a more promising field.

The absence of the dog’s rustle brought him back to the present.  He stood and held his breath, listening above the whisper the breeze made in the grass.  He strained for a while and then there it was, the faint tinkle and pant.  The dog had found a depressed deer trail cut in the small rift.  Working towards the last sound, the hunter momentarily glimpsed the black dog running back up the cleft with his head held low.  He called to the dog, the dog continued hopping up the track with his nose close to the ground.  The hunter jogged up, caught his collar and brought him to a stop.  The dog sat and panted heavily.  Pulling a bottle of water from his bag, the hunter pulled off his glove and trickled water into his palm for the dog to lap.  Capping the bottle, the hunter stood next to the dog and looked north towards the small clump of reeds in a low spot up next to the east road.  The reeds meandered back up into the field and petered out to the north. He estimated they began just off of the road about a quarter mile away.  ‘Are you ready for the main event?’  The dogs breathing had slowed, and he looked up at the hunter waiting for his cue.  ‘Well, let’s do it.’

The dog got up and hopped off on his arc out ahead of the hunter.  He willed the dog to find the scent, hoped for one compliant bird.  He knew it was unlikely this late in the season.  The dog’s pace this time was slowed by the tall, dense switch grass.  It was easier to track him here.  The hunter worried any bird ahead would surely flush from the noise.  The dog’s rhythmic pant had changed as he labored through the grass.  Though he barreled through, the hunter was able to easily keep pace.

They worked closer to the reeds.  As the hunter tracked the dog’s progress, he kept his attention to that reed clump.  The anticipation made him uneasy.  He couldn’t admit to himself there might be a bird hiding there.  The anticipation increased as they made their way closer to the clump.  Checking the ground, he found tracks in the snow covering a frozen ice patch.  And more tracks.  He realized this snow had fallen last night.

And they were there, the dog appeared and crossed a small, clear trail and jumped into the reeds.  Emerging downwind, his tail wriggled, he started, stopped, doubled back.  He entered the reeds again.  Taking his cue, the hunter doubled to the side cut-off holding his shotgun ready.  He tracked the sound of the dog’s progress through the patch.  Looking ahead, he saw the patches of water on the ice where the spring poured into a cut.  The dog emerged from the patch and broke through.

The crack sent the birds into the air out the far side of the frozen swamp.  The hunter watched as they flushed away up past the abandoned farm house.  They flushed in bunches.  When it seemed as if they would quit, a few more would rise cackling, power off and disappear gliding into the far north pasture.

It wasn’t deep, but the dog was disoriented.  He tried to get on top of the ice, but his back legs lacked the strength.  He stood in the chill water, looking down, perplexed, frustrated by the barrier.

The hunter broke through the thin ice to the thicker ice.  The water penetrated and enveloped first his feet, then his legs up to the calf.  He reached the dog and set his shotgun down on an unbroken patch.  The dog was unaccustomed to being held, but acquiesced.  Water drained from his coat as the hunter lifted him from the water and carried him back to the edge of the swamp.  ‘I know, it’s cold.’

He set the dog down.  The dog got to his feet, swayed for a second, then shook.  Regaining his composure, he followed a scent off downwind of the reeds.  Satisfied the dog wasn’t freezing, the hunter broke back through the ice to his shotgun.  It had sunk down to the bottom.  Taking off his glove, he reached down, found it and pulled it up.  He opened the action and drained the water.  Satisfied nothing remained, he rechambered the shell and closed the action.

Picking up the progress of the dog, he waded back towards dry ground, stomped the water from his boots and set off.  The dog had been reinvigorated.  It was well, he thought.  It was almost a half mile back to the truck.  He decided then to make an arc back towards the south, hitting the sparse cover on the ridge.  The dog would have an easier time.  His fingers, though in gloves, were now aching from the chill water.  His feet now ached as well, they might have been clubs.  He walked vigorously to catch the dog.

The dog had made his way up the hill as if he had read the hunter’s mind.  He quartered, and doubled back working the wind.  Following his progress, the hunter noticed a familiar purpose, a will.  He knew it couldn’t be.  They had come close to the bird in the last few seasons only to lose and watch it flush away.  He willed this to be so.  The dog’s purpose intensified.  The hunter moved to close the gap and close off the angle.

The bird flushed just as the dog caught sight of it.  Surprised, the hunter raised the gun and fired.  The shot caught the bird and ended it there.   The dog sat intently marking the fall.  ‘Jack!’  Hearing his name, he jumped off to retrieve the bird.  The hunter stood, relaxed, allowing the dog this bird.

Trophy Day

I have been on many hunts I would call memorable, yet most fade until I can barely recall.  Of all of those, there are still a few I remember as if they happened just yesterday.  I remember every detail.  These hunts were special because they held all the elements of a good hunt, camaraderie, anticipation, hard work, discovery and surprise.  Sometimes I reminisce and recall what made a trip so fantastic.  One of these happened about twelve years ago in the Little Dragoons of southern Arizona.

I was stationed in Tucson.  Many of us in my squadron bowhunted.  We formed loose alliances.  We had a fantastic archery club on base with a known distance range and a couple of walk-around courses.  We practiced together too.  And we all knew each other.

One thing we all anticipated was the January Archery Javelina season.  Those alliances usually gelled into cliques in the month before the season.  Some who we classified as more dedicated than most scouted locations for javelina sizing the herds, chances of success, and either kept them secret or not.  Those who decided to keep their locations secret usually hunted by themselves lest they find half the squadron in their secret spot.  They also were explicitly vague when questioned.  These hunters were, for whatever reason, also usually quite possessive of the knowledge they had spent time and effort obtaining.  Rightfully so.

I don’t think anyone really knows how it happened, but it did.  That season, twelve years ago, we all wound up getting together for a trip on the first weekend of January to go up to the Little Dragoons and hunt those javelina.  The week prior we decided to meet at Denny’s for breakfast about two hours prior to sunrise.  Twelve of us in our hunting duds had breakfast in a sit-down restaurant all giddy with anticipation.  The location, a canyon on some Bureau of Land Management property and opening onto the national Forest, wasn’t at that time known as prime javelina territory.  But, one of us had been up there stalking mule deer and just happened to stumble onto a herd of about twenty five pigs.  Two of them were reported to be quite large judging from their coal black appearance.  The norm ran to wild speculation that morning.  We were all excited at the guaranteed prospects.

We made the trip to the canyon in three vehicles.  I happened to ride with my friend Bill and opened gates for him.  The day was just beginning to dawn, clear and in the forties with hardly any wind.  We rolled up to park and got out and stretched, pulled out our bows and packs, decided where we would head first.  Bill and I chose to head up the west ridgeline together.  Everyone else decided to head up the canyon and then poke east.  Someone set up a target and a few of us took some warm-up shots at it.  Steeled, Bill and I told them good luck and started the hump up the ridge.

The day was perfect for a long hike up in those mountains.  We were winded by the time we got to the first ridge.  The sun was just clearing the horizon, lit the eastern slopes and left the canyon bottoms and west faces dark.  Standing on the ridge we judged the pigs would probably be a while rising, and would head for the eastern exposures to warm up.  We glassed a while, and not spotting anything promising, moved slowly up the ridge.

We stopped every hundred yards or so to glass some more.   Glassing for pigs is an art unto itself.  It takes good binoculars, patience and some experience.  Javelina are like anything else.  They are lazy.  If they had their druthers, they would camp out in one spot with food, shelter and water within easy reach.  Kind of like the living room concept:  a beer in one hand, remote in the other, bathroom just down the hall.  The desert in which they live dictates otherwise.  They spend most of their time loafing around and nibbling on what is close and move only when they must.  Since a large javelina is maybe twenty inches at the shoulder, spotting a bedded herd of javelina in waist-high grass or scrub is difficult.  Your best bet is to catch them when they do move, but they don’t move very often.  So, if you don’t happen to see a stung-out herd of javelina poking along, what you look for is the juvenile pig out jacking around on the perimeter of a bedded herd.  It’s just a small speck of coal that moves just slightly.  Or, sometimes it’s the spot of charcoal that isn’t there anymore.

As the morning faded to midday, Bill and I had crept up the ridge and gained a thousand feet.  Looking into that canyon, inspecting every feature of the opposite slope, we had become familiar with every charcoal-hued spot.  A breeze had picked up and it was pleasant in the lee of the rocks on the ridge.  Getting together, we compared notes.  We discussed the probability of javelina movement, which areas looked promising, what spots could possibly turn into a live pig.  After about an hour on full scour mode, we decided to drop over to the east side of the ridge and check out the upper canyon where we had parked.

I had never been up in that canyon.  The descent was rapid.  Those mountains bark right up from the floor of the desert.  The slopes look anywhere from forty to sixty degrees.  That particular slot up in the canyon was relatively level and broad with oaks, yucca and sparse creosote scattered around.  Our level of anticipation increased as we noticed small yuccas pulled apart by our quarry.  Tracks were everywhere along with scat.  The breeze which had steadily picked up to a wind up on the ridge had slackened until it nearly disappeared on the floor.  A musky odor not far removed from that of a skunk told us javelina had been there not too long ago.  Now that it was nearly noon, meandering through the canyon with all that obvious sign just thrown into our faces, and without a bonafide sighting, our anticipation gradually turned to frustration.

But, the Little Dragoons are a massive wilderness.  It’s hard to explain, but in fifteen or twenty minutes, you can hike up to the top of the nearest ridge to gain a vantage point that allows you to spy down into the acres of canyons and across into several counties beyond.  Feeling the frustration, but not giving up, that’s what we did.  Up on the ridge again, our hope renewed, we sat down for what we knew would be a test of our patience and spotting skills.  We broke out our lunches, drank some water and mapped out areas of responsibility.  And began to look.

A steady wind of about ten to fifteen miles an hour was blowing from our backs out of the east.  As we sat and glassed the canyon and facing mountainside, the wind picked up and started to gust.  An hour turned to two.  We hadn’t moved or spoken.  I believe Bill spoke first.  He asked if that spot down by the finger of the opposing ridgeline, down near the end and the large yucca, wasn’t really a pig.  You know, one straying from a pile laying up under that shade behind and to the left of the yucca.  I commented that it might be.  We looked at it waiting for it to move for maybe ten minutes.  The distance was more than a half mile, the wind and warming air playing tricks with mirage.  It did seem to move if you caught it just right.  Bill said it had to be.  I knew that was hope talking.  I was ready to believe him.  I bet him a Budweiser it wasn’t.  He said to make it a six pack.

We gathered our packs and bows and trundled off down the mountain.  That was the only one way to determine what it actually was, an up-close visual inspection.  I think about half way down the slope we both could plainly see it was just a grayed, weathered mesquite stump twisted off in some storm years before.  We continued down the slope anyway because it just got that much more interesting.  We had been staring at that canyon for hours and getting down into it, close up, validated what we had suspected or disproved it altogether.  It also gave us different perspectives and views into other areas not visible from our perch up on the ridge.

Arriving at the stump we didn’t really acknowledge the absence of javelina.  Instead, we poked around a bit and did what seemed the best idea and went up over that opposite ridge.  It was the last one before the range turned to basin.  At the top the wind had force again, so we dropped down about a hundred yards or so to plunk down and glass again. A doe spooked from upwind right then.  Bill, in possession of a tag, put a stalk on her that got him busted just as he was making bow range.  He came back and we glassed the flats towards Benson for a half hour.

At this point we both realized that any javelina wouldn’t be out there in the wide open.  But, you never know.  So we made sure, scoured that flat and every feature.  And thought.  Where were those pigs?  There was sign everywhere we walked that day.  We speculated about the chances the other might be having.  We postulated on the whereabouts of the herd and finally concluded we would have to go on up the first ridgeline to spot again.  After a swig of water we picked up and started the trek up the ridge.  We were just feeling the results of all that hiking, our calves and thighs tiring.

We stayed on the ridge next to the flats and contoured up to where it met the ridge above the truck.  Navigating in those mountains is pretty easy.  You could probably circumnavigate the entire range in one day on foot.  No trees block your view of all the prominent features.  If there aren’t any clouds, you always have the sun as your compass.  You can see forever if you are on the tallest peak.  We just kept pushing up the ridge to its junction.  It was a test of wills to see who would stop first, but we finally came to a likely looking spot to glass and stopped.

The sun was falling towards the west.  The canyons were in shadow.  Our present train of though was that those pigs hadn’t moved all day long, either due to the cold, wind or present moon phase.  Anyway, we were certain they would have to move for some reason or other before dark.  After that ascent we had both broken a sweat.  The full force of the waning wind belted us up on that exposed ridge.  We drained our canteens.  We didn’t stay long, but stopped and glassed the most likely looking areas and started moving down the ridge back to the truck.  We did that until the sun finally touched the west horizon and began to set.

It didn’t occur to us how far we were from the truck at that point.  Looking at a topographical map later, we estimated it was about three quarters of a mile.  The ridge up near the peak was relatively easy to get down.  But as we got about halfway to the truck it turned to great slabs of rock sticking up out of the ridge.  These stratified layers were eroding with loose talus everywhere.  The slope on either side was noticeably steeper than everywhere else we had been.  We picked our way carefully down, climbing over and down the rock.  After that passage it became easier again and we fairly jogged.  At that point the hunt had been abandoned, we didn’t care if we did spook any javelina.  The last half mile to the truck was all downhill and easy.

It was nearly dark when we got to the parking spot.  We could see the others standing around the trucks, putting gear away and changing clothes.  Generally milling around and talking.  We walked up tired and beat.  Usually when you come upon a group of friends who have been out hunting you are hailed and cajoled.  This was different.  Their body language betrayed their dejection.  Bill asked who got a pig?  I think it was Dan who first spoke up, saying they had seen a herd of about thirty.  If it wasn’t fifty.  The had all gotten shots.  Everyone.  There had been pigs everywhere, others began to add now.  There were shots not taken because of field-of-fire issues.

So, Bill and I stood there listening, drinking water and cooling off down in the canyon by the trucks.  The big one had been seen.  He was coal black.  You had to watch out and not shoot the first thing because it might be small, or you might shoot two.  The pigs scattered and the group had split into two chasing both herds in different directions.  They went clear over to the back side of the mountain and then had just disappeared.  But after lunch, they had gotten into them again.  More pigs than before.

Finally Bill asked to see.  See what?  Well, where are they?  Oh, well, no one had actually shot a javelina.  Bill and I then noticed Dan putting his bow away in the back of his Jeep.  There weren’t any arrows in his quiver.  Bill asked where they all were.   Guilty looks all around.  Bill and I looked at each other and began to laugh.  We had hiked probably six miles in some of the toughest country and hadn’t seen a single javelina.   And these guys?  Between them they had four arrows left.  If you are planning a trip to the Little Dragoons you may want to make a note of that fact and take the proper safety precautions.

Our trip home was relaxed.  We schemed to make another trip to the canyon, obviously the javelina were still in there.  In fact, we returned the next weekend and after a hard days hike to the opposite side of the east ridge and back, we stumbled onto a pile of bedded pigs up on the slope just above the truck.  All that time spent in binoculars and what gave them away was the clacking a loner made on the outskirts of the herd pulling a century plant apart.

We each got our javelina that day.  However, what we got the first weekend of javelina season was a great day out in the mountains and a great story.  That hunt had all of the elements that make a great one, anticipation, hard work and shared hope.  That we didn’t get our pig was actually a bonus.  It afforded us the opportunity to strike out into the mountains again.  Thinking about that day teaches me what it is all really about.

Lost Forever

It isn’t hard for me to remember the grip in which fishing held me.  It was complete.  The time I spent other than on the shore of the nearby lake or next to a stream, I spent scheming to get there.  A large portion of the money I made on my paper route went toward buying fishing tackle and bait.  I steered any conversation to the subject with any unwitting person, I’m sure I invented new ways to bore them.  When I had graduated high school and moved away from home ostensibly to pursue higher education, I followed my calling with disastrous results to any efforts at obtaining a degree.  I suppose I broke my parent’s hearts, but I believe they have since come to terms.  My obsession was excused earlier in my life by anyone who may have paused to reflect upon it as a youthful indiscretion.  Lacking the resources to continue an education in the art of fishing the trout streams of California, I enlisted in the Air Force.  This removed me from my beloved rivers and lakes.  And it was a huge change for me personally.  I had to learn my job, how to get around in the Air Force without letting on about my affliction.  I did my best to abstain from the practice of my undoing and I believe no one noticed I was any different from your run of the mill airman.  In recent years however, I have found an interesting, exciting and respectable outlet for my obsessive compulsive behavior.

About six years ago I was looking at leaving for a three month trip to fulfill an obligation to the Air Force in a foreign country.  Due to an unbelievable stroke of bad luck I would be gone from mid-October through the end of December.  By the time I had returned, I would miss all of the good hunting seasons.  I had become accustomed to enjoying the archery deer season in October and pheasant season in November, not to mention the rifle deer season in early November.  Unwittingly, I had succumbed once again to my neurosis.  Frantically searching the hunting season guide I measured my options carefully.  I was leaving in four days and planned to pack as much action into them as I could before I left.  A one line entry showed a two-day early season for ducks.  This, it seemed, was my sle opportunity.  I got on the phone with my friend, Mike, and spent probably five full minutes convincing him it wouldn’t be a complete bust.  Promising he would only have to show up with his shotgun, I finally goaded him to try it with me.

Six years ago, on that trip, neither Mike nor I had any idea what duck hunting is about.  We borrowed a bag full of decoys from a friend who hadn’t been after ducks for years.  I loaned Mike some waders, we threw everything into the back of y truck and took off before we even knew where we were headed.  We consulted a map of state hunting areas along the way, debating the relative merits of each.  We finally decided on a location sight unseen, because the name sounded promising.  Getting there in the early morning darkness, we threw on our waders, slung our shotguns and dragged the decoys and thermos’ out into the marsh.  It is probably sheer blind luck, but we just happened to stumble onto a gem in the heart of Nebraska.  That day we shot only a few ducks.  But, the spectacle was something to behold.  We had taken our first peek into the world of duck hunting and been swallowed whole.

What we hadn’t suspected was intimated in the form of two hunters we met that first day while we took a break for lunch back at the truck.  They were bearded, wizened, amiable fellows toting worn shotguns dressed in marsh grass camo.  They were putting togethersome sandwiches, resting in the shade.  We pelted them with questions.  What we learned was that the ducks liked to talk to them.   The fall flight wasn’t really underway, but resident big ducks were coming down from the feed lot to the north back to the marsh where they were roosting.  The action would really pick up when snow dumped up north on Canada and the Dakotas, pushing the birds south.  No, #2 shot is just fine, BB is better for the big ones-don’t shoot anything tighter than an improved cylinder choke in your barrel.  Camouflage is key, but movement is worse.  Standing in plain sight of decoying birds is okay as long as you don’t move.  Decoy placement is a consideration, but more importantly, make sure the decoys move.  On and on, we laid our complete lack of knowledge out for them and hung on every word they said.  Jack, my Springer, went AWOL and flushed a rooster out of the cut milo back behind where we were parked.  Later, back in the marsh, we blew our duck call and tried not to move as we watched fligh after flight of mallards drop in on those two hunters to our north.  They came out after sunset and we haven’t seen them since.

I left on my trip overseas with an insatiable craving to know more about this duck hunting business.  I left the decoys and my truck at Mike’s disposal.  He began to unravel the mystery.  In October, after the regular duck season opened, he made at least two trips out to the marsh every week.  All through the season, he got up two hours before sunrise and traveled the hundred miles to the marsh as if beckoned by some mysterious calling.  The reports he sent back were encouraging and frustrating to bear all at once.  Yeah, that big storm that went through Canada last week sent the birds our way.  It doesn’t matter where you set up in the marsh, just make sure the wind is at your back.  On clear days with hardly any wind you’ll hear them cupping in flocks of twenty or more.  The just set their wings up there in the stratosphere, come screaming down and glide in formation right into the decoys.  Sometimes you can’t keep them out, they just keep on coming.  All greenheads.  Hearing this from Mike and being so far removed from home was doing me in  I had to get back.  I went on-line and ordered two dozen decoys, a bag and weights.  The were on my doorstep when I returned.

No only had the birds left, but the seasons were closed.  I wouldn’t even be allowed the opportunity to sit out in a marsh to pretend.  Mike and I consulted the regulations and found that Kansas’ duck season was open for four more days.  I don’t know how he did it, but his wife allowed him the trip.  We packed up and left for his parent’s house in Great Bend that night.  The next morning we went out and scouted the Arkansas, found a likely looking spot and threw out the brand new decoys.  A few ducks passed high overhead, but didn’t bite.  The only thing we did manage to fool was a hunter making his way downstream.  We talked to him a bit, he had taken two teal, but hadn’t seen any mallards.  It was pretty cold, wind blowing pretty god, and most of the ducks had already headed out.  Good luck.  We pulled decoys and scouted for a place to set up on the morning.

We found a gravel pit that had a shallow shelf at the western end.  The next morning, we woke up and looked outside to see four inches of snow n the ground.  A look at the thermometer showed it was nearly ten degrees.  We brushed the truck off, threw in our gear and headed out.  The Arkansas is a warm water river – that is to say the power plant keeps it open all year.  When we reached the sand pit, two mallards got up off of the eastern end and headed south.  We tossed out our decoys and waited.  By eleven that morning, we knew we were through.  I hadn’t witnessed much duck hunting that season.  But what I saw had me hooked.

On the drive back up to Nebraska I believe Mike and I had finally realized this was no mere hobby we were dabbling in.  We schemed and planned for the following season, vowed to upgrade our decoy spread, calls, calling techniques and camouflage.  Over the next months we did just that. Our budgetary process indeed reflected the importance we placed upon this endeavor.  We annoyed the neighbors and our passengers with long, loud calling routines, learned the J decoy spread, debated the usefulness of confidence decoys and scouted locations.  All of this activity fueled an anticipation of the coming season.  It was also evidenced by our increasingly inventive ways to steer any conversation to  our obsession.  By the time the season had arrived we could recognize every species of waterfowl on the Central Flyway and several by sound alone.  We had long-range, short-range, marsh and timber calls.  Mike picked up a bull sprig whistle for good measure.  Our wardrobes sported the latest marsh-grass camouflage, we put together a quick-set-up, portable blind.  It also seemed every acquaintance of ours always had sudden, compelling business elsewhere.

The season opened spectacularly.  Our condition worsened as the season progressed.  Archery deer season opened while I was throwing decoys in a new marsh.  Rifle deer season came and went.  Pheasant season started and my springer began retrieving decoys.  This is not to say our experiences on the marsh weren’t fulfilling.  We enjoyed success after success that year.  We had practiced what we had read enough times to improve our basic approach and perfected techniques particular to certain situations in our own marsh.  At the truck, newbies would retreat from the marsh and unabashedly lay bare their ignorance, and hung on every word we said.  We ate so much duck I swear we thought we would grow pin feathers.  And I realized a patter was beginning to develop.  I had fallen into my old ways, I was as obsessed as I had been growing up.    But, being a self-starter, I decided I could handle this situation on my own and embarked on my own twelve-step program.

Last week we stood in the local outdoor super-store, back in the decoy and wader section.  Putting down a call I was testing to see if it measured up to the one I have been using the past few seasons, I reached behind a box of decoy weights to turn a sign over that had fallen from the shelf above.  It said, ‘CAUTION:  Waterfowl Hunting is contagious.  Waterfowling has been known to cause divorce, bankruptcy, and vagrancy.  Proceed with Caution.’  Mike and I looked at each other and smiled.   You know, it’s true.  I almost fell into that pit myself.  However, carefully managed, not only can you enjoy waterfowling, but keep our job and the respect of your friends and colleagues.  Just don’t let them come to your house to see the five dozen decoys stashed on the back porch.  Try to let them steer the conversation to the topics they wish to discuss.  And don’t blast them with your latest greeting call or allow them to open the glove compartment.  They’re better off not knowing you keep your five different duck calls there so you can practice on the way to and from work.